The librarian.

The New Job

Knock knock.

Desmond looked up from where he sat. He had a black-covered dark romance novel in his hands and was gently flipping through its pages.

Knock. Knock.

He placed the book down on the settee. Just as he waltzed toward the door, the knocking became more persistent.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door swung open, and Goldy's head popped in.

“Hi! It’s me—Goldy, from the other day. Remember?”

Desmond stared at him for a moment.

“What do you want?” he said quietly.

“Right... about that. Umm, can I come in?” Goldy scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

Desmond began to slide the door shut, but Goldy quickly jammed his foot between the ledge to stop it. The sound that followed was deafening.

“OWWW! I think I’ve got a broken foot!” Goldy winced, reeling in pain.

Desmond sighed and reopened the door. Goldy rushed in like a culprit being chased by the cops.

“I think it’s twisted. Do you have a medical kit or something?” he asked, collapsing onto the settee and clutching his foot like it was a stolen treasure.

Desmond walked over and knelt down beside him.

“Here, let me look at that.”

No sooner had Goldy released his grip on the foot than—snap. The scream that followed was legendary.

“Man! Do you wanna rip off my foot or something?!” Goldy cried, writhing in pain.

Desmond stood and returned to his seat, picking up the book.

“It’s all good now. You can leave,” he said calmly, flipping the pages.

“There’s no way I’m walking with this. It’s like you totally smashed it!” Goldy protested, still gripping his foot.

Desmond raised an eyebrow—a gesture sharp enough to pierce hesitation.

“I mean… I can try… if you want.” Goldy gingerly set his foot on the ground and closed his eyes like he was stepping into hell.

“Ah! See that? You were right—I’m fixed,” he chuckled nervously.

No response. Desmond’s eyes were lost in black and white ink.

“Ain’t you bored? Staying here all alone, reading that... shitty book? I mean, if you want, I can take you to Creams and Cud. It’s the best park around. They’ve got restaurants to die for.”

Still no answer.

“Are you even listening?” Goldy was clearly losing patience.

“I hear one more word, and your feet are good as gone.”

Goldy gulped. He tiptoed back to the door, pausing briefly to glance behind him, wondering what kind of beast he had just encountered.

“At least... tell me—why the mask?”

The book closed with a firm snap.

Goldy didn’t wait to find out what happened next. He bolted, leaving the door wide open behind him.

---

"To prove delusion, you must first prove insanity. Meaning, you have to prove insanity-induced delusion. The judgment, however, is mostly left to the discretion of the court."

Professor Henderson clicked off the projector with a slight snap of his remote.

"And that brings us to the end of today’s class."

He gathered his notes, adjusted his glasses, and looked over the silent room of blinking students.

"I’ll be uploading a detailed discourse by Professor Maxwell to the class platform. I expect everyone to go through it before our next session. And yes, review the cases of Smith v. State (2019) and Eleanor v. The State (2019). You’ll find both on the Library Congress Forum."

And just like that, he was out the door.

Almost immediately, the first victim showed up.

"Hi, Desmond!"

It was Mabel—the queen of classroom theatrics, known for thinking she could charm a stone wall if it smiled at her first. Today, she had her sights locked on the one human brick in the room: Desmond.

He didn’t lift his head. His fingers gently flipped a page in the thick, worn novel he always carried around like an emotional support item.

"Hello?" she tried again, adding a little giggle for seasoning.

Still nothing.

A few classmates looked her way, amused by the show. She spotted them and began to fidget, tightening her arms against her body in an attempt to act like she had everything under control.

With a brittle smile, she leaned in closer.

"Umm… So there’s this party happening tonight. At my place. There’s gonna be music, crazy vibes, drinks… hot people. You don’t wanna miss that, right?"

Desmond slowly looked up from the book.

His eyes were sharp, his tone colder than a courtroom verdict.

"Maybe missing it will be a relief."

That one line punched the air out of her lungs. Her eyes blinked rapidly, and without another word, she backed away, awkwardly laughing like she hadn’t just been publicly vaporized.

Desmond returned to his book.

---

Later that day, Desmond made his way to the dining hall for lunch. As always, the atmosphere shifted the moment he entered. Heads turned. Whispers stirred like wind in dry grass. To them, he wasn’t a student—he was a walking infection.

Unbothered, he collected his tray and scanned the room before settling at a deserted table tucked away in the far corner. Alone. Just how he liked it.

Then came the next interruption.

“Desmond, right?”

He didn’t bother to look up. The voice was familiar—Kira. Assistant General Secretary of the student union. Confident. Calculated. Often loud for no reason.

Without breaking rhythm, Desmond stabbed a piece of grilled chicken soaked in dill sauce, raised it slowly, and brought it to his mouth like the conversation didn’t exist.

Kira scoffed.

“Right! Guess you’re deaf and dumb. Whatever. Mr. Gould wants to see you.”

She spun on her heel, clearly pleased with her own exit line.

Desmond’s voice followed her calmly, almost too calmly.

“You should change your underwear. Everyone knows it’s pink.”

She froze mid-step. Her spine stiffened. Slowly, she glanced over her shoulder, then dared a peek at her too-tight white skirt, the one that didn’t quite hide the bright detail she’d hoped no one noticed.

Her cheeks flushed with horror.

Desmond stood, pushed his tray aside, and walked past her without another word.

---

Mr. Gould, the school supervisor, was a man in his late fifties, though his looks clung stubbornly to the charm of his forties. He always wore his rimmed glasses and rarely smiled—except when flirting with Miss Dorothy, the school cook.

He didn’t look up from his book as Desmond entered. His words hit cold and without warning.

“There’ve been multiple complaints from your lecturers and fellow students about your indifferent attitude toward the school’s principles.”

Desmond blinked slowly. “And what kind of principles are we talking about, sir?”

“The kind that involve active participation, collaboration, and a sense of respect for community. You've consistently withdrawn from activities and treated rules as optional. In short, you're becoming a menace.”

“But I haven’t broken any rules.”

Mr. Gould’s eyes finally rose. “Retorting against an administrator is breaking one.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s anywhere in the school constitution.”

“Maybe it’s time I inserted it.”

“That would violate Code 25 of the school management charter, which states, and I quote: ‘No authority shall create or administer a rule in prejudice against any student, regardless of moral countenance.’”

Mr. Gould blinked. “Can you hear yourself?”

“Perfectly well, sir.”

“You’re quoting rules to me. Your supervisor.”

“Exactly what I’m doing, sir.”

A tense silence lingered.

Mr. Gould sighed, setting the book aside. “Look, what I’m really trying to say, kid, is that you need a life. That’s what college is for. This—this might be the last time you get to really enjoy being alive. Instead, you're trying to disappear. Locking yourself in a corner, pushing everyone away... that’s not living. That’s surviving. And no one survives college alone.”

He paused, his tone softening. “You’ve still got time to fix it. Let someone in. Take the mask off—it’s just another wall. And walls…”

“Are we done here?” Desmond cut in.

Gould looked slightly stunned. “Yes… yes, we are.”

Desmond stood.

“Mr. Desmond,” Gould called as he reached the door. Desmond’s hand froze on the knob.

“The management has decided to replace the former librarian. Effective immediately, you’ve been appointed the school’s librarian. Report tomorrow to receive your badge and key.”

“I don’t want it,” Desmond replied without turning.

“It’s your father’s instruction.”

That name. That man. The only constant thorn in his already wounded heel. The pain behind his ribs flared just hearing it—how his father always found a way to control his life, no matter the resistance.

“I said I don’t want it,” he snapped, then slammed the door behind him.

----

Desmond walked to the house across the street and banged on the door.

The occupant must’ve been

loitering close because he swung it open almost immediately.

“What, man?! You tryna break my door?” Goldy didn’t look too happy.

“How about a party tonight?” Desmond cut to the chase, not in the mood for small talk.

“A what?”

“A party. You in or what?”

“Bro… it’s literally 9 p.m.”

Desmond stared at him blankly, like he’d just said something criminally stupid.

“Isn’t that why it’s called a night party?”

“Umm… yeah, but—”

“Catch me in five,” Desmond said, already turning away from the porch.

“I gotta dress up first!”

“That’s the definition of five minutes!” he called back without looking.

----

The drive to the venue was anything but peaceful.

Goldie went on a relentless rant about his family’s “historical apparel”—how his grandfather had supposedly discovered gold in the Gold Coast, how he met his first girlfriend, and how the two of them used to play with lizards and praying mantises.

They even cooked one. Fried it. Ate it.

As a solemn oath to stay faithful forever.

“She broke the oath,” Goldie said dramatically, “and that led to her terminal illness... and eventually her death.”

Desmond said nothing, his silence louder than any reaction.

They arrived just as the party reached full swing—bubbling with euphoric music, sweaty bodies, and neon lights.

“You made it!” Mabel squealed, rushing toward Desmond and pulling him into a hug.

He gently but firmly pulled away.

She giggled awkwardly, brushing it off.

“It’s loud in here!” Goldie shouted, already grabbing a shot of whiskey from a waiter.

“And who do we have here?” Mabel said, turning to Goldie. “Wow, Desmond, you brought a friend? That’s so sweet!”

She offered a handshake, but Goldie went for a full-body hug.

Mabel flinched in disgust and yanked herself free.

“My name is Goldie,” he said, flashing a smile full of brown teeth.

“Um... yeah, right.” Mabel turned back to Desmond. “Now darling, how about I show you around the house?”

“Nah. I’m good.” Desmond said, brushing her hand off gently.

“Oh... okay.” Her expression darkened a little. “Well, what can I get you, love?”

Desmond didn’t respond. He was too busy scanning the crowd of teenagers and young adults dancing wildly.

“I’m all good,” he said simply.

“I don’t mind you showing me around the house, though,” Goldie chimed in, still flashing his infamous smile.

Mabel looked utterly repulsed.

“I’m just gonna leave you both to it, then.”

And with that, she spun away, heels clicking as she disappeared into the crowd.

“You think she likes me?” Goldie turned to Desmond, who had already taken a seat in the dining room, scrolling through his phone, reading up on the cases assigned by Professor Henderson.

“Yo! Say something. You think she fancies me?”

“No.”

Desmond didn’t even look up.

Goldie frowned, took another shot of whiskey, and slumped beside him.

“How are you even reading with all this noise and madness around?”

Desmond looked up briefly from behind his mask.

“You distract me again, I’m dumping your ass here.”

Goldie stared at him.

“Yeah... sucker,” he muttered, getting up and walking off toward a girl standing near the bar.

---

The song had been blaring for hours. Desmond stood up, having completed his reading. It was about two in the morning, and teenagers were still scattered around the party—some still clinging to a dance, some playing party games, while most were already leaving for home.

Desmond searched around for Goldie but couldn’t spot him. He ran up the staircase, bumping into a corridor lined with rooms facing each other. He opened one that was dimly lit, only to be greeted by the sound of moans. He immediately shut the door and kept pacing. He tried another room—only to walk into another explicit scene.

Fed up, he headed back downstairs, running into Mabel on the way.

“Have you seen Goldie?” he asked.

“Goldie who?”

“Goldie. The guy I came with.”

“Oh, you mean that loser!” She let out a giggle. “What do you even need him for? I mean, look around—there are lots of hot girls here. Plus, I’m free… if you know what I mean.” She bit her lower lip and eyed him seductively.

“Goldie,” Desmond said flatly.

“Right, whatever. The moron’s behind the couch by the fireplace, totally knocked out. Go pick up his sorry ass and get out of my party.” She hissed irritably.

“Yeah, your party sucks,” he muttered, hurrying off.

Goldie was sprawled on the floor, his back against the couch, a bottle of beer resting in his hand. He reeked of booze and was snoring loudly. Desmond jabbed his shoulder, and Goldie sprang up, eyes wide and disoriented.

“What… what happened? Where are we?” he stammered hazily.

“Come on. We’re leaving.” Desmond turned toward the exit.

“Really? Now? I thought the party was just starting.” Goldie staggered after him, still clutching the bottle.

“Yeah. You can stay if you want.”

They reached the driveway, where cars were rolling out toward home, packed with hysterical kids yelling into the night.

Just as they were about to get into the car, a scream cut through the noise:

“GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”

No one else seemed to notice.

“Holy s**t,” Goldie muttered.

Desmond turned toward the sound and saw three boys surrounding a girl, making threatening advances near the pathway. It wasn’t his concern.

“Come on. Get in,” Desmond said, starting the engine.

“We gotta save her,” Goldie countered.

“You’re no hero—you’re drunk. I’m not saying it again. In the car.”

“You’re wrong, and I’m gonna prove it!” Goldie ran toward them, yelling, “LET THE GIRL GO, ASSHOLES!”

The brutes turned, their leader grinning while the others laughed at the pathetic challenge.

Desmond watched for a moment, then shrugged and drove off—until a blood-curdling shriek from Goldie made him slam the brakes.

“f**k this,” he muttered, stepping out and walking toward the fight.

They hadn’t expected a second opponent. The three were busy pummeling Goldie, who lay curled on the ground. The girl stood frozen nearby, trembling in fear.

One brute raised a fist to smash into Goldie’s face, but Desmond caught his arm from behind. The thug turned—mistake. Desmond punched him repeatedly before tossing him aside.

The other two froze, shocked.

“No, you didn’t!” the leader snarled, charging. Desmond sidestepped, letting him crash into the wall.

The last thug stared at Desmond, fear etched into his face.

“Who… who are you?” he stammered.

The leader tried a sneak attack from behind, aiming a punch at Desmond’s head. Without looking, Desmond tilted his head aside. He grabbed the outstretched arm, slammed it down over his shoulder—crack—and followed with a brutal elbow to the face, knocking him out cold.

The last thug bolted.

Goldie slowly sat up, his face swollen and bruised, staring at Desmond in awe.

“OMG!” he yelped.

“How did you do that?” a sweet voice asked from behind.

Desmond turned and saw the girl properly for the first time. She wore a silver gown laced with rubies, a fitted leather jacket, and had the clear accent of a Brit. Her azure eyes shone beneath long lashes, her golden hair framing a chiseled jaw. Her skin looked like silk in the night light.

“Are you some kind of ninja Samaritan? Or a secret shadow agent?” she teased with a small smile.

Desmond stared for a few seconds, then turned back to help Goldie up.

“We leave. Now.”

“Uh… sorry, he can be like that,” Goldie said quickly to her. “But… I guess we’ll see you again?”

The engine roared.

“s**t! Wait for me, asshole!” Goldie ran to the car. The girl stood there, both mesmerized and insulted.

Goldie jumped in just as it rolled away.

“What was that about?”

No answer.

“Are you deaf? What the hell did you pull out there? When did you turn into Bruce Lee?”

“Just a few tricks. Plus, they were too drunk to fight properly,” Desmond finally replied.

“What? Those guys beat me like a rag doll—what difference does it make?”

“You were also drunk,” Desmond said, turning onto a quiet street.

“Right…” Goldie conceded, realizing he’d never get a real answer. “Still, that was cool, bro. You looked like an action star.”

Desmond kept his eyes on the road.

“And the girl? Man, that was my shot! You couldn’t even let me get her number. Totally uncool. You ruined my night with that move.”

Desmond glanced at him from behind the mask, clearly debating his fate.

“You wanna get home?”

“Obviously.”

“Then shut the f**k up.”

“Okay, okay—chill.”

Goldie wasn’t stupid enough to risk being left on a deserted road at night. He sank into his seat, watching the city blur past the window.